


Right

by gunmetal_ring



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunmetal_ring/pseuds/gunmetal_ring
Summary: "We have a future. Don't let her take that too."Carol tells Daryl.(Starts right after season 10, episode 8: "The World Before")
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	Right

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted at Nine Lives!

He thumbs away her tears, and he's sure his love for her is spilling out, but he's past caring. She should _know_ how important she is. How worthy she is. How much he needs her.

It's not the right time - it's never been the right time, not since he managed to untangle his feelings for her just before Henry's head was mounted on that pike and she left her husband, sailed away, and jumped feet-first into a war that would end her, one way or another.

She might pull herself back from the edge, just the slightest bit, just because he asks - just because he _begs_ , and make no mistake, he _is_ begging, he _is_ , the desperation threading through the frustration is evident in his voice, and he can hear it, plain as day - and for a moment he thinks he sees something bend within her.

But as quickly as it appears, it's washed away, and the moment's over.

\--

When it happens, there's a longstanding sense of rightness to it. He's never been much interested in dime-store romance novels, but he understands what it means when people say the stars align. There's no other word for it - it just feels _right_.

Over the years he's grown more comfortable in his skin, more self-assured and secure, but there have been plenty of times when he's wavered. When he shrinks back and feels that same churn of discomfort and fear and shame in his gut, telling him he's not worth shit. And as much as he hates to say it, everything with Carol - all the back-and-forth, him pouring his heart out to her, her running away, him begging and pleading and crying for her to come back, only for her to say she will and turn on a dime - brought it a little closer to the surface than it's been in a while.

But this? This helps.

She knows how ragged his edges are, how messy and raw and sharp his nerves are, all on display, and he can't tuck it away anymore. He can't hide it behind stoic glares and a crass mouth and a hot temper. She knows, intimately, just how much he _craves_ love and attention and comfort, and just how much he hates himself for needing it.

Used to hate himself for needing it. Now, he doesn't care. Now, time and again, he's shown her, bared his heart to her, all in the hopes of pulling her back from the edge, and while it didn't work, he doesn't regret it. His cards are on the table, and her nerves just as messy and raw and sharp as his are. Maybe more.

Two peas in a pod, they are. And he wishes he could take away her pain, that hurt that just won't quit, because she doesn't deserve it. She never has, but she just keeps taking these brutal hits and she's finally cracked.

But now, looking at the sheer relief on her face, eyes tearing up and voice wobbling with disbelief, she knows what he's been telling her since the start:

He's hers, wholly and completely, unconditionally and irrevocably.

He thought he'd made it clear, but he knows intimately the demons that haunt her, and he's just glad that it's finally sinking in. _He's hers_ , and he's always been, throughout the war and his six-year stint in the woods and the Saviors and Terminus and the prison and even the farm.

He's hers, always has been and always will be, and he's known it for a while but now she knows it too.

Thinking back, he sees the two of them in a different light - she knew, at the farm and at the prison, that he was hers. But after the people from Woodbury came they spent less and less time together, and after it fell she started slipping away. He could feel it then, and he wishes he could have done something more to pull her back. What, he isn't sure, but he doesn't want to accept that she was always going to do it.

Until now.

Earlier tonight, she'd knocked on his basement door, and asked to talk.

Actually _talk_.

He'd let her in, without question, and now they're sitting on his bed, and he's watching her gather her thoughts.

"I want to tell you. I'm trying. I know I need to. But it's hard. It's so hard, and I know you said you'd never hate me, and I think you mean it, but I don't know how you won't when I tell you." And she's crying again, not bothering to hide it, and he finds himself holding her face in his hands and thumbing away her tears again, and he's struck by how different this moment feels. As if they're standing on the precipice of something _real_ , and she's finally, _finally_ telling him, no matter how hard it is and no matter how long it takes.

She sucks in a sharp breath and closes her eyes, and he waits.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "I meant it then. I mean it now. Ain't nothin' you can do to make me hate you. I swear."

She breathes out, a shaky exhale, and just nods, and he hopes his words are sinking in.

It's true, after all - she's hurt him time and time again, leaving and lying and telling him what he wants to hear and so hellbent on revenge she can't see past her own self-destruction and how it's destroying him, too.

But no matter what, he's forgiven her without hesitation, without a second thought, and while it was harder to do after she killed Magna and Connie, he did it. She hadn't meant to, and she probably hadn't even expected all of them to follow her into that cave in the first place.

So he waits again, and finally, she says, "Every child around me has died, for one reason or another. But it's me. Always me."

He could jump in and say _not your fault_ or _kids ain't meant for this world sometimes_ or anything that might comfort her, but he knows she wouldn't believe it, and he doesn't want to interrupt her, not when she's _finally_ telling him.

So he doesn't react, he just waits for her to continue, and after a few moments, she does.

"Sophia... I made her weak. I didn't make her learn. I didn't make her strong. I kept her soft and sweet and scared, and it killed her."

It's not true, but he doesn't interrupt. He wants her to keep going.

She does. "Lizzie and Mika..."

She swallows, and tries again. "They - I... wanted them to be different. Strong."

He watches her resolve weaken, and he nods at her to continue. Hopes she can see that he understands, even if he doesn't agree with her.

"Sam, I pushed away because _I_ learned what happens to children around me, and he kept coming back anyway. And he died, too."

Another beat, and she forces it out, a broken-up whisper that he's come to hear all too often. "And I thought Henry could be different. With a community protecting him and a father that loved him. And I should have known."

He tries to keep his face neutral, but inside, he wants to scream. _It's not your fault_.

He doesn't.

After a few minutes, he's starting to feel like this is it, this is all she's going to tell him, because he _knows_ there's more, he can see something buried deep, but then she speaks.

"But you know that. You know about Sophia and Sam and Henry. You know. And you know that the girls weren't with me. But -" and the tears come back. "You don't know _why_."

He thumbs them away again, and when she doesn't speak, he murmurs, "Do you want me to ask? Easier?"

She nods, and he chooses his words carefully.

"Was it like Sophia or Sam?"

She shakes her head, and a pit drops in his stomach.

"Terminus?"

She shakes her head again, tears falling faster, and he doesn't know how else it could have happened. He doesn't know what could possibly make her think she was so unworthy of love. He doesn't -

He remembers Carl saying something to him at the prison about some of the kids not taking the walkers seriously. He remembers hearing about someone feeding the walkers rats. Someone flaying a rabbit against a wall.

But she beats him to it.

She says, "Lizzie wasn't right. She liked walkers."

Did she bring them to their camp? Did she feed ones nearby? Did she want one as a friend? As a pet?

"She hurt someone?"

Carol nods.

"Hurt Mika?"

Carol nods, and squeezes her eyes shut, and more tears fall.

He feels a lump grow in his throat, and asks as gently as he can.

"Kill her?"

Carol buries her face in Daryl's shoulder, tries to hold back a single sob, and it's then that it clicks for Daryl.

"You did what you had to do. To protect Tyreese and Judith. To protect yourself."

He feels his shirt grow wet, and she starts shaking, and he whispers, "'S okay. Told you. Never gonna hate you. Still don't."

It's then that she breaks, a guttural moan and sobs that sound like they _hurt_ , unlocking years upon years' worth of pain and self-loathing and every awful feeling she's ever felt, and he hugs her closer to him, rocking back and forth, and he feels a pang in his heart, a deep, sharp pain too, and he wishes like hell there was something he could do to make it all better.

But she's gotta get it all out. Gotta unlock herself and let those messy, raw, sharp nerves soften their edges and round off their points, tire themselves out so there's nothing left for them to hurt anymore.

So he holds her and rocks her back and forth, curls his hand into his hair and runs his thumb over the nape of her neck, over and over and over again until she's emptied it all out.

And when she does, when she stops gasping like it's the last breath she'll take and stops gripping his shirt like it's the only thing holding her back from the edge of a cliff, he tilts his face down and kisses her on the crown of her head, and he feels her entire body sag against him like she's got no energy to hold herself upright anymore.

She probably doesn't - it's exhausting to _feel_ the way she just did, and so he gently lays her down on the bed, and murmurs, "You wanna sleep for a bit?"

She nods, and he feels emboldened to ask. "Wanna be by yourself?"

She shakes her head, and something swells in his chest. "Can lay down with you or sit nearby, whatever you want 's fine with me."

She pauses for a moment, but tugs at his hand and whispers, "Please stay."

He nods, flashes her a hint of a reassuring smile, and whispers back. "'Course."

He lays down next to her and she curls into him, and he resumes stroking her hair until her breathing evens out and she's asleep.

He closes his eyes too, and is so, so grateful to have this, to be with her and be there for her, no matter how it looks like.

\--

He wakes up before her in the morning, and is surprised to find they haven't changed positions at all.

Her face is red and puffy, and her eyes are gonna hurt like hell, probably her chest and her stomach too, but it's worth it. She's gotta know that.

He can even spot some broken blood vessels around her eyes, but he thinks to himself that they're badges of honor. Battle scars and proof of her strength, even though they'll fade soon enough.

He's gotta pee something awful, and he's sure his breath isn't gonna do him any favors, but he doesn't want her to wake up to an empty bed thinking he left her.

Luckily, she stretches against him, and when she opens her eyes she squints and rubs at them.

"Hey there," he says, and she nods at him, but judging by her wince she regrets it immediately. "How you feelin'?"

"Like shit," she mumbles, but it's good. It's _good_.

He smiles, and says, "Lemme get somethin' for you, make it feel better, okay?"

"Yup."

He squeezes her hand, and extricates himself from the bed, and as he's climbing the stairs he stops and looks at her.

"Please don't go."

He waits for a moment, and then she says, "I won't."

He's not sure he can believe her, but he nods at her anyway, and heads upstairs.

He pees and swishes around some mouthwash, not wanting to spend any more time than he has to brushing his teeth, and grabs some ice from the freezer and wraps it in a towel.

He walks back downstairs, and he's relieved to see she hasn't moved.

He crosses the room and sits next to her on the bed, gently resting the shitty excuse for a compress against her closed eyes.

She hums at that, and he takes his time moving it around her face - cheekbones, forehead, mouth, throat, and back again.

The ice starts to melt, and he stands up to get some more, but she pulls on his shirt.

"No, it's okay. Just stay here."

So he tosses the rag on the floor, and lays back down with her, and she curls right back into him.

She doesn't fall back asleep, though, and after a while he whispers, "Thank you."

He feels a shaky exhale hit his chest, and he hugs her tight against him.

They lay like that for a while, and forget about the world outside.

\--

They've taken to doing this now, sharing his bed every night curled up against each other. More often than not they don't say a word to each other and they fall into a routine, his side and her side and both of their pillows adjusted just so.

And one night she asks, "Why?"

She's not looking at him, but he can hear the insecurity in her voice. "Why what?"

"Why don't you hate me?"

He blinks. He thought it was obvious - his heart's made a home for itself on his sleeve for a long time now, and he's never been able to hide from her. She's always seen right through the mask. Or so he thought.

So he simply says, "No reason to." He feels her start to object, and adds, "You always do what you gotta do to protect yourself. Protect the people you love. Even when it hurts. You do what you do for the right reasons."

"Not with Connie."

This again?

"Told you already. Wasn't like that. Ever." He takes a breath, knowing what his next words will bring. Knowing where the conversation goes.

But he's ready.

So he says, "Was never gonna be like that, neither. Even if she made it out."

It's quiet for a minute or so, and it's only because he's straining to listen that he can hear what she says next.

"Why?"

And it's then that he knows it clicked for her. She knows how he feels. And she's telling him she feels it too.

So he pulls back and looks at her, and there's wariness all over her face.

But there's a faint note of hope, too.

This is the moment - it's right, and the stars align, and everything inside him is telling him to do it. Finally _do_ it.

So he holds her gaze for a moment, brushes his thumb against her cheekbone, and brings his face level to hers.

She's holding her breath, he can tell, and when he nudges his nose against her, he closes his eyes and presses his lips against hers, pulling back quick as can be.

She blows out her breath, shaky and harsh, and curls her fingers into his hair, gazing at him for a moment before nodding, and he kisses her again, long enough for her to kiss him back.

He's not seeing stars or fireworks or whatever stupid shit they always talk about in those romance novels, but he can't hide the smile that sneaks up on him, and the sense of _rightness_ solidifies in his chest, stomach twisting with nerves and anticipation.

He pulls back again, meets her eyes, and there's relief shining through them, and she can't hide her smile either.

He's been adjusting to the idea of having _sex_ with _Carol_ for a while now, but it still feels a little alien to him. He'd lived his entire life without having sex, blood running cold whenever anyone touched him, no matter how much he craved it. Craved any kind of softness or kindness or any good touch. He hated himself for it and hated everyone for withholding it and hated everyone for offering it, too, because he knew it wasn't real. Knew they were just waiting for him to drop his guard and yank it back and then he'd be left with nothing, be back where he was but with another thick coat of self-hatred and humiliation.

He's let people in now - Rick and Michonne, everyone at the farm, and now Tara and Aaron too, but Carol's been there since day one. She showed him how to love and be loved, and by the time she started running he was never going to be able to get his guard back, and he was never going to hate himself for it, either. Or at least not as much as he would have before her.

But he's past caring that he doesn't know what he's doing. He's past caring that she's going to be teaching him the ins and outs of something a man his age should already know. She already taught him how to love and be loved in return - that's a hundred times scarier than this, and he can't be bothered to hate himself for wanting to feel good. Wanting to make her feel good. Wanting her in any way she'll give to him.

It's been almost ten years in the making. He can wait another ten years if he has to. He can wait _forever_ , even if this is all it is. It doesn't matter, so long as she doesn't leave again.

"What do you want?" she whispers, and he shakes his head.

"Whatever you want."

She smiles, and he can tell she believes him.

She pulls him on top of her and shows him how to kiss her, shows him how to make her feel good, and he tries his best to worship her, and he thinks she _gets_ it.

If someone had told him at the start that a decade later he'd be making love to the mousy woman at the quarry, he'd scoff and probably start a fistfight for daring to fuck with him.

Because that's what it is - it's lovemaking, it's the culmination of years of hurt and grief and hope and _love_ , the depths of which he'd never thought himself capable until she came along, and he loves her for that. Loves her for more reasons he can count.

He gets her there before he even starts, which is good, because once he starts it's over almost before it begins.

If they had done this any time before now, he thinks, he'd be humiliated. Running for the hills, brimming with self-loathing and shame hot enough to burn. He'd lick his wounds in private, and when he finally mustered up the courage to return, he'd refuse to meet her eyes and he'd lash out whenever she tried to approach.

Then the look in her eyes would surely bring about another wave of shame and self-loathing, and it would take them weeks, maybe _months_ , to get back to normal, let alone pick up where they'd left off - if they'd ever return to that point.

As it stands, though, he just groans and buries his face in the hand not cupped under her, and her chest bumps against his when she softly chuckles.

"Well, if that's not an ego boost, I don't know what is."

"Stop," he grumbles, and while his traditional embarrassment colors the phrase, there's no warning behind it - she won't have to worry about him shutting down or running off or lashing out, and he's pleased with himself for it.

She sighs and threads her fingers through his hair, releasing what she'd been clenching so tightly in favor of lightly scratching her fingernails against his scalp, and it's relaxing enough that he forgets his embarrassment for a moment.

\--

And it's like that now, and it gets better - less messy, less raw, less scary, and it becomes _fun_ , it becomes something he'd never thought he'd have, it becomes easy and loses that desperate, serious, intense need.

Usually.

Sometimes they have bad days, sometimes they have nightmares, sometimes he has to break down her walls again and pull her back, and when it happens afterwards it's that same intense, serious, desperate display of _love_ , that outpouring of their messy, raw, sharp nerves with their jagged edges and painful points, and it's sad but it's _good_ , and sometimes he wants to cry and sometimes she does with how much it _hurts_ , but now it's a good hurt. It's a healing wound. It's a balm on a burn, a massage on a sore muscle.

It's theirs.

And it takes them longer than he wants, but they get ready for New Mexico, and it's a fresh start for an old friendship, for a deeply _right_ kind of love, and as soon as they leave he knows it's _good_ , and he can tell that she knows it too.

They've come such a long way, and now they've got their whole lives ahead of them. They have a future now.

It's theirs and theirs alone, and it's _right._


End file.
